


Chances Thrown

by glorious_spoon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Underage Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-09
Updated: 2010-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-15 16:52:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They need the money.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chances Thrown

The guy drops the money on the pavement in front of him and tousles his hair roughly. Like Dad does. The thought makes him want to scream, lunge forward and headbutt the bastard in the crotch, force exploding up and out like Dad showed him,  _teach you you son of a BITCH--_  
  
He doesn't. Too busy trying not to puke, for one thing, the taste lingering heavy and salty-hot in the back of his throat, the ache in his jaw that's not that bad, really, not at all, really.  
  
They need the money. Sammy's hungry. He's only eight-and-a-half, and he's hungry. And this is thirty dollars. That's a lot. That's at least two weeks of food.  
  
It rained earlier and there's damp bleeding in through the knees of his jeans and the guy gets himself tucked away and this is the part where he's supposed to just fucking  _leave._  
  
The bills are lying in a puddle. A twenty, a five, and five ones. And the guy doesn't leave. He cups Dean's cheek like he's a girl or something and he leans down and  _oh hell fucking no_  kisses him on the mouth.  
  
"So good," he murmurs, thumb against Dean's cheekbone, breath rank in his face. "Pretty," and Dean has to clench his teeth to keep from biting him.  
  
"Anytime," the guy says. "You find me anytime. I'll be around."  
  
Dean's thirteen, and a pretty skinny thirteen at that, but he's been through the John Winchester School of Asskicking since he was big enough to make a fist and he can think of five ways off the top of his head that he could do this half-drunk sicko some serious damage. Lay him out on his ass in the alley and make him think twice about ever trying this shit again.  
  
 _Sammy,_  he thinks, and he looks up, grins, cocky and slow like he knows what the hell he's doing. "Yeah, sure," he says, and finally fucking  _finally_  the guy's walking back toward the lot where his fancy-ass car is parked.  
  
The bills are limp, cold and wet in his hand when he scoops them out of the puddle, and there's nobody there to see that it takes him three tries to get up to his feet.


End file.
